


Wishful Thinking

by theworstwolves



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: I like to think Napoleon convinces himself it's his ego talking when people actually like him back, Jealousy, Multi, Pining, Prelude to group sex, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, inappropriate over the trouser fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 22:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6584377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theworstwolves/pseuds/theworstwolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Russia, it turns out, is cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishful Thinking

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't sleep last night because I was cold, and then this happened. 
> 
> I watched the film two weeks ago, read some fic and now we're here. This is the first thing I've written in well over a year and I got it out in about two hours, there's something nice about working from idea to finished product without stopping - if only I could be that productive with the essays I blew off to write this. Because of all this it may be a little sloppy. 
> 
> Unbeta'd so any mistakes are down to my great friends dyslexia and the lack of motivation to proof read.

Russia, it turns out, is cold.

Of course, ontologically, Napoleon knew this. They’re close to the arctic circle, and everybody has heard about the what happened in the war, the winter that killed almost as many as the Russian army.

Knowing something, however, and experiencing it, are two very different things.

He thought it had been bad in the day. His hands freezing in his gloves, nose pink as it poked out from under the ridiculous hat Illya had made him wear, joints stiff as they scouted the city, huge coats doing nothing to keep off the worst of the winter chill. At least then there had been watery sun then, giving them the illusion of warmth, the memory of summers that suddenly seemed so far away.

The sun went in hours ago, and then safe house they’re stuck in doesn’t have heating, maybe it’s broken, or maybe no one cared enough to install it in the first place.

He longs for the luxury of the hotels the passed in town, their bars and hot food, the duvets they’d been sleeping under. Hotels are out of the question though. By now Illya is a well-known KGB defector. They can’t stay somewhere more public and run the risk of someone recognising him, it would derail the mission, or, more likely, get them all killed. Irritatingly though they can’t run the mission without him either, U.N.C.L.E has never recruited from the KGB before, no one else shares his knowledge.

It’s a catch-22 that has Napoleon cursing under his breath and wondering – not at all hyperbolically – how long it would take him to develop frost bite.

“Stop moving.  Is loud.”

The voice comes from the other side of the room, Illya’s deep base carrying in the darkness even though his words are quiet.

Napoleon has noticed that Illya’s proficiency in English fluctuates dramatically. It mostly happens when what he’s saying is urgent, or when he’s hurt. He drops his contractions, shortens words and goes by the assumption that people should be able to understand him anyway. Napoleon knows he shouldn’t but he files away the knowledge that it also happens when he is tired. He wonders what else causes it, wonders if Gaby knows better than he does.

He pulls himself away from his thought and focuses on Illya’s words, rather than the way in which he spoke them.

It is, he thinks, unfair. For a start Illya is used to this climate, grew up in Russia and worked all across Eastern Europe. Napoleon on the other hand went through a stage of convincing himself the richest pickings we’re to be found on the Florida coast. Also, not only does Illya have more blankets than him, he has the added advantage of Gaby, who’s curled up against him so close that when he looks over Napoleon can’t tell from under the blankets where her body ends and his starts.

“I’m trying.” He says, trying and failing to resist the urge to draw a huge shuddering breath in though his teeth, as if that might warm him up some. He rolls over again fruitlessly and hears an annoyed huff. Though the darkness he sees Illya shift, brushing his nose against Gaby’s hairline, pressing his lips to her forehead. She makes a small quiet noise as she opens her eyes and it makes Napoleons stomach twist.

Illya jerks his jaw over toward him while keeping Gaby’s gaze and, after studying him silently for a moment, she nods, once.

Napoleon can’t quite work out when they got this good at non-verbal communication, if it was before or after they started sleeping together. He can’t figure out which would be worse, that they’ve always been this in sync, or that they’re slowing moving onto another level, one that he cannot hope to access, one that shuts him out even more. 

“Come here.”

He frowns as Illya speaks, understanding what he’s saying but not seeing why he’s saying it.

“You sleep, we sleep.”

Napoleon can’t argue that it doesn’t make sense. He’s spent most of the night jealously coveting the warmth that they’d been sharing between them. It would be ridiculous to turn the offer down now; he knows Illya won’t ask him more than once.

With the promise of warmth awaiting him he reluctantly gets out of his own bed, blankets wrapped protectively around his shoulders as he pads towards them, eyes fixed on them the whole time.

He hesitates when he sees Gaby disentangle herself from Illya, shift across the bed forming a space between them, one Napoleon is clearly meant to slip into.

He had been expecting to share a bed in the most clinical of ways, to encroach on their space as little as physically possible. His back to Illya’s, or, perhaps on the other side, next to Gaby as she stayed closer to the other man she really wants to share a bed with. Between them, he decides. Is an odd choice.

“Or you can go back to your bed.”

He chides himself that his hesitation was enough to notice, shaking his head, convincing himself that it’s only because he knows his sheets will have turned icy already. He wants to sleep with them on a practicality, nothing more.

So he climbs awkwardly between them, shifting so that he’s laying down without jostling them too much, back pressing against Illya’s chest because there’s no room for space between them – and besides, that defeats the whole point of this painful exercise. 

He can feel the heat of Illya’s body though the layers of both their clothes and decided instantly that this was a bad idea.

He should have been content with freezing.

Gaby smiles at him and up until this moment he thinks that the night may have been salvageable, that they could have gone their separate ways in the morning having survived a night without losing feeling in their extremities, but then she curls into him, in exactly the same way as he had with Illya, no discrimination between  the man she’s sleeping with and Napoleon, who must be valued as a colleague, if little else. He can smell the shampoo she last used and wishes he couldn't. 

She wraps her arm around him and her hand slips under the hem of his top, cold fingers searching for heat against his skin.

It then he knows it’s over.

This is where they have to part ways.

He’ll finish the mission but then he has to leave, disappear on them without a backwards glance. They’ll be irritated with him at first, but they won’t miss him, not in the way he’ll have to stop himself from missing them. And that’ll be better, them cursing him for walking out than knowing oh how much he covets them. Wants to take what they have and make it his own like the thief he is.

It gets worse though, it always does. He freezes when he feels arms wrap around him, Illya reaching out for Gaby but finding him on the way, bracketing him so completely between their bodies so  that for a moment Napoleon feels he might suffocate.

“Don’t think. Sleep.”

And this time when Illya speaks he can feel his words vibrate though him, in his chest, deep somewhere in his stomach, he feels like he can taste the air that accompanies them.

He forces himself to slow his breathing, savour this for what it is. Yes, it’s warm and it’s comfortable, its’ what he’s wanted for so long and it’s too much and not enough all at once.

Sleeping is easier than he expects, and he tells himself it’s solely down to how tired he is, not the feeling of Illya’s breath in his hair,  nor the way Gaby sweeps a thumb across his ribs.

*

He wakes to the sound of low, murmuring voices.

It’s not quite light outside though he can hear the birds signalling that dawn is just around the corner, it’s probably later in the morning than it feels, the nights are long in this part of the world.

At some point in the night Gaby has turned, kicking the blankets almost fully off the three of them and now she has her back pushed up against him. Illya’s arms are wrapped around the pair of them, presumably resting on Gaby’s belly. He’s speaking to her over the top of Napoleons head in sleep stilted German, he’s too tired to automatically translate it, which, he thinks, is probably why it was chosen, to given them privacy when he has invaded their space.

He lies like that for a while. Enjoying the pretence of still being asleep that allows him to stay pressed between the warmth of their bodies, letting their familiar voices wash over him.

He thinks he might not have felt this safe in a long time.

He thinks that this is a dangerous thing to think.

Still, he allows himself the indulgence because this will not happen again. It can’t.

He feels Gaby shift slightly against him, hips hitching and her breath coming out in a low laugh and he opens his eyes to see why. To his horror – at least that’s the reaction he decides he’s going to stick with if ever questioned about this – he realises that Illya’s hands are far lower than he’d originally assumed, pressed against the front of Gaby’s trousers, long fingers moving lazily, with little intent as she smoothly rocks into them. There’s no heat in either of their movements, just a warm closeness that Napoleon finds himself at once wishing that he was properly a part of and as far away from as possible.

The realisation of what they’re doing is enough to wake him fully, and he’s aware that if he – reacts – in any way, Gaby will surely know.

His brain clicks into gear in time to catch and fully understand the end of Illya’s last sentence “… it is unprofessional.”

Gaby laughs again, though it’s more a pleased exhale than anything, a sound Napoleon knows it will be hard for him to forget, “and this is being professional?” She asks as she wiggles against his body.

Illya is silent for a moment, movements stopping and in doing so making Napoleon hyper aware that in order to reach Gaby his arm is draped across him, resting against him in a way he wishes he hadn’t noticed because he now knows if, when, the lazy movement restarts he’ll be able to _feel_ it.

“I mean it is not a thing that people do.”

“It’s not unheard of either though.”

“You could be wrong.”

“I am never wrong when it comes to men and sex.”

This time it is Illya who laughs, arm tensing as he presses down in a way that makes Gaby squirm.

“Don’t tell me you don’t want him.” She says, voice pitching lower. “You wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t.”

Napoleon finds himself coughing; a sounds that shocks even himself as he shatters the quiet peace that had been enveloping the room. He feels Illya’s hand draw back across him even as Gaby makes a noise in protest. Now Illya’s no longer holding him Napoleon feels like he can finally breathe again, but the respite doesn’t last for long as soon Gaby is turning to face him once. He can’t help but look down and note the darkness on the material between her legs, when he looks up, she’s scrutinising him coolly, unflustered by what she must know he can see.

“I should have told you I was awake, I didn’t mean to listen in.” He tells them, all awkward and apologetic in a way he tries never to be.

“Oh, but we we’re hoping that you we’re listening.” Gaby tells him, in English this time, voice slow and eyes still holding his gaze.

He really ought to look away.

He doesn’t.

“It was you we were talking about.”  Illya tells him, blunt in a way only he can be, though it’s softened by the fact that his words are almost spoken into Napoleon’s scalp. He’d think he was being sarcastic if he didn’t know Illya didn’t see the point in sarcasm.

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Of course a part of him had been wildly hoping that he was the ‘him’ that they’d been talking about. Another part of him is also convinced that he’s still asleep, unconscious in over drive at being asked to share their bed.

“Gaby thinks that you stare.”

This takes him aback. He like to think that he was being subtle, watching them from afar, listening into their conversations in a way that could pass for professional interest. After all one of the skills in being a thief is not revelling what it is you covet.

He blushes now, to think that they must have known how much he wanted them.

“And what do you think?” He chances, glad now that it’s Gaby staring down at him rather than Illya. He might still be able to pass this off as a normal infatuation. Illya hadn’t had the chance to answer Gaby’s final question before Napoleon interrupted. He could suggest that it’s Gaby he wants – only Gaby – and hope that Illya doesn’t hurt him too badly for wanting what is not his.

“I think, that for a man who prides himself in claiming what he wants, you have been…” he trails off, as if searching for what word could best finish his sentence, describe exactly how Napoleon ‘has been’.

Gaby finally breaks his gaze, instead looking up at Illya and supplying in a voice that is almost sympathetic when it really should sound cruel, “you’ve been shy.”

Napoleon flounders, wondering exactly how he found himself this out of his depth. Wondering how this _is_ out of his depth. His reputation with women precedes him and it’s not like his own sex is unexplored territory. This really shouldn’t be anything new to him, and yet…

Illya is right. Normally he finds what it is he wants and he takes it. The thrill for him is in the search, the exhilarating feeling that he might get caught, and the buzz when he isn’t. Oftentimes though, he doesn’t know what to do once he have achieved his goal because this is where the analogy breaks down. Illya and Gaby are not pretty trinkets to be stolen and then cast aside for the highest price. They have potential past their winning. For Napoleon the game is the chase, for them the game has only just started.

“Isn’t this the sort of thing that’s illegal where you’re from?” He asks, words coming from nowhere and instantly regrettable. He’s so used to talking himself out of things he’s doing it now, trying to get back to a game he understands rather than this unfamiliar, shifting territory where he very clearly isn’t in control.

“So is abandoning the KGB to run secret operations with a mechanic and a CIA agent, but I have not been caught yet.”

As he speaks Illya’s head drops in a way that can be nothing but deliberate. He’s speaking directly into Napoleons ear, causing the hairs on his skin to stand up as his lips ghost past not quite touching. He can’t see his face, can only infer what he must look like from his words, from the way he shifts his body impossibly closer. It makes something coil inside him, hot and liquid and he realises for the first time that getting exactly what you want can be terrifying.

Gaby reaches a hand up to his cheek, bringing his attention back to her – as much as it can be with Illya’s body pressed against him, hot and firm and a startling contrast to Gaby’s soft curves, which are now too pressed against him. Boxing him in.

“You can get out of bed now and we won’t speak of this again.” She tells him reaching up to push his hair away from his forehead absently. “We’ll chalk it up to the Russian winter, a moment of shared insanity.”

He wets his lips, while Gaby is pressing closer he can feel Illya steady behind him, steady but making him feel electric with potential. His hands are so close, resting almost at Napoleons thigh; it would take so little for him to reach forward, to touch him like he’d been touching Gaby.

Napoleon draws in a breath, similar to the ones he was trying to silence last night, the ones that brought him into this whole thing. He wonders briefly then, if they’d been waiting for this, an excuse to get him into their bed, a night cold enough that they could pass it off as innocent if he didn’t play ball.

The thought that maybe they’d been wanting him as he wanted them causes his breath to catch, and he shakes his head. Gaby smiles at him as she moves her hand down to jaw, pushing his head back so it’s resting against Illya’s throat, one of Illya’s hands coming to wrap around his chest.

She scraps her teeth lightly against his chin, a prelude of what’s to come he thinks, and them reaches up to kiss him, mouth soft and open against his as Illya moves his other hand down in the way Napoleon so wanted him to.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Weirdly this goes against so many head cannons I have for these guys but it was fun to write!


End file.
